


Not The Vampire Chronicles

by hummingrightalong



Category: Vampire Chronicles - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, armand coming in later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:54:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23670403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hummingrightalong/pseuds/hummingrightalong
Summary: Inspired by a discussion on discord. A modern update on an old story we all love. I imagine Lestat is much younger than book Lestat, and not French. Louis is a modern-day Arabic immigrant. Traditionalism is the source of much of his brooding, rather than his original background. He doesn’t lose a wife, he loses a family that couldn’t accept his life. And Armand will be Guatemalan and the eldest undead in this story.Face claimed Lestat as Tom Payne, Louis as Rami Malek, and Armand (to make a future appearance) as Oscar Isaac.
Relationships: Lestat de Lioncourt/Louis de Pointe du Lac
Kudos: 2





	Not The Vampire Chronicles

The monster has been listening for months. The man on the radio is all the more interesting as his mood becomes more and more obviously the signal to the end of his human life. But he can’t have that. As a generosity, a courtesy, he plans to allow the radio DJ to take his own life, to end his human life. 

It’s a favor. If he’s being honest with himself- something he tries very hard never to do- he’s never been this nervous. Not in all the years he was alive (longer than he claims but not all that long), and definitely not in the century or so (always exaggerated in the company of the undead) he’s been a vampire.

He’s only done it a few times, and almost every time either went wrong or the one he chose did, somehow. They often left him, for all the love he gave them.

Lestat believes that this one will be different. That they need each other. Each night, as he listens to him for several hours; the irony of the subject of his desire working a ‘graveyard shift’ isn’t lost on him. Those around him, who’ve been dead longer, would say he’d always just been there for the aesthetic. He’d fix his hair in the mirrors they could now catch their reflections in, and he’d laugh agreeably. He was the most beautiful monster you’d ever meet.

The DJ would be even more beautiful.

*

He’d had his gig since he left his home and family behind. It was for the best, he’d told himself, as they already expressed their disapproval that he wouldn’t make more of himself with the chances they’d given him.

It was all a thinly veiled excuse to ignore, to pretend that they never would have approved of any life he chose to live. Not unless he wanted to live it lonely.

Louis became a self fulfilling prophecy in LA anyway. He never could keep a relationship down, or really stomach most people anyway. Even on his late night show (a damn good gig that payed well enough to live in the expensive city) he’d gone off the rails on people when they called in. Losing his temper, for the DJ, boiled down to an even toned scathing retort that made him both all that much more popular and hated by ‘a certain type’.

A first generation American with a simple dream hadn’t met to be some kind of viral sensation. Too much attention for him. Between the music, the praise and critiques of bands’ latest albums, this gig had somehow become a big fucking deal.

It’s the night it gets personal- or maybe he was just feeling lonely that night and some random asshole asks the wrong question- that his mind gets made up.

Louis has been taking shots all night. Not abnormal for him, and it’s probably his natural tolerance for alcohol that’s kept his boss from getting the word that he’s not-quite-three-sheets-to-the-wind when he hosts the show (if they minded at all) that’s kept him from losing the only thing in this life that’s keeping him going. 

To be fair, and to take responsibility for himself, it’s not just one call that sends him over the edge. But it is. Some silly comment about the music he’s been playing, the ‘type’ it’s for, the ‘type’ some members of the band are, and he lets loose, rages, and signs off early. 

The message he leaves his fans with isn’t cryptic at all, telling them he’ll leave them with some good tunes but he couldn’t possibly promise what his replacement would do to them. For that he was sorry, “but fuck this, I’m out.” 

There’s no one to leave a note for, no one to apologise to. Except maybe himself but he’s never been good at that. He’s learned not to be too proud of anything, accept any praise for anything. There’s always a catch.

Swigging from the bottle now, when he reaches for the key he shouldn’t have to the roof of the station, he feels the wind and the end of the night surround him. There’s no more anger, frustration, he doesn’t hate his life at this moment. He doesn’t like it much either though. 

Right in front of him, there’s so much possibility, and right below him too. There’s his car, around the corner the janitor will just be getting in. He shouldn’t even hear this from where he starts his shift. No telling how long it’ll take to find him, but yet again he’s making it easy on everyone else. 

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t close his eyes. Louis isn’t sure he’ll die instantly, not everyone is that lucky he’s read, but he’s pretty sure this is the easiest way. His body certainly won’t be any trouble.

*

The monster Lestat knows that tonight is tonight. Hell, if every fan of the program doesn’t, they’re fools. Humans have a knack for that, though. 

He’d expected to have to follow Louis home, that he’d use some other method. But he’s just in time to see with his preternaturally honed sight, the DJ taking one final swig and, not jumping or falling, but just- letting go in a grand gesture. 

The body hits the car, so gracefully posed and if he’s already dead (even close to it) he looks so beautiful and alive. To give him the gift he remembers he must drain his blood; he can already smell the trickle of it, and knows that underneath this beautiful suicide the body is messy. His cold fingers find a fading pulse, and with a thrill he realises he’ll have to help him along before he gives him his own blood. 

Louis’ eyes are closed, and Lestat reaches out with his mind. He’s not conscious, not feeling this. And from the taste of him he was heavily intoxicated. Even after he cuts his own wrist (with a small knife Louis keeps hidden inside his coat- ah the poetry) it takes everything in him to wait the time it’ll take for the injuries from the fall to knit themselves back together. It’s then that there’s a groan from Louis. It pains the monster to hear it.

“What would the others think of this, eh,” Lestat mutters to himself. “I don’t mind, you’re worth it Louis.” He kneels next to the body, listening and waiting, in a dark suit with a subtle expensive brocade you wouldn’t see in this light. It’s the least flashy of his suits, something you have to be close to notice how expensive it is. The DJ, in turn, wears a simple pair of worn dark jeans and a bomber jacket. His modern hairstyle shaved close to the sides, the black curls slicked down on the top of his head dyed deep blue and purple here and there. Interesting, decorative, a lot of effort to put in if you’re suicidal.

Somewhere deep and dark and barely alive Louis hears a gentlemanly british accent; he’ll remember this as a fever dream later on even after Lestat fills in the details. Something about it is good, comforting; all said and done not familiar to him. He’ll remember death hugging him, and being ripped from it. When he comes out of it, he’s going to ask this bastard what the hell was so important about him to save his life. It had never mattered to anyone else. 

*


End file.
